Maverick threw a single dart—not at Fenris, but at the power relay behind him. The smart-dart curved mid-flight, struck the switch, and the entire gallery plunged into emergency darkness. Red lights flickered. Alarms blared. The cryo-vault’s magnetic seals began to fail.

In the chaos, Maverick moved. He wasn't faster than a bullet. He was faster than a decision. He took down three mercenaries in four seconds—dart, elbow, disarm, shot to the knee. He grabbed a child’s hand, shoved her toward the exit stairwell, and shouted, “Run! North corridor!”

The voice on the other end was cold, clipped, and belonged to his handler, a ghost named Nair. “Maverick, we have a Code Ashoka. A splinter cell of the Serpent’s Hand has seized the International Genetics Institute in Geneva. They’ve locked down the cryo-vault containing the Alpha Strain.”

“I’m a bioinformatician,” he whispered to a trembling woman. “Play along.”

Maverick climbed the maintenance gantry to the overhead walkways, looking down into the cryo-vault’s viewing gallery. Fenris stood in the center, tall, shaven-headed, with a mechanical arm that glinted with chrome and malice. He held a dead-man’s switch. Around him, fifteen heavily armed mercenaries. The hostages were huddled against the far wall—scientists, janitors, a group of children on a school tour.

Fenris laughed. The servo twitched. One… two… three… four.

The Geneva police stormed the gallery two minutes later. Hostages were freed. The Alpha Strain was secured. Fenris was led away in a neural restraint collar, still staring at his broken arm.

A mercenary grabbed him by the collar. “You. Get to the line.”